Halloween Prank American Style . . .

  
   Date:  Late 1980's . . .

   Location:   Little Rock, Arkansas . . .
   Holiday:  Halloween . . .
   Prank: Bowel Movement inside Jack-O Lantern.
   He talked me into doing it.  His name was Stephen.  A redneck suffering from sublimity.  Loved Hendrix.  When he'd trip white blotter, he'd stick it under a headband; next, cut his suburban grass underneath the shimmering, yellow Sun, the LSD sweating into his joyous cranium, driving him elated in 60's fashion.
   Anyway, it wasn't summer.  That season had passed--now it was the time of crisp foliage fallen, ornamenting the suburban sprawl with the crunchy walk of autumn hues.  And Stephen had an idea.  He always wanted to prank somebody with the clandestine art of scatological warfare; moreover, his plan:  Gut a pumpkin, sit atop its throne and fumble fecal matter inside; next, put the top back on along with a Burger King paper crown, stick a cigar in the pumpkin, and put it on his adversaries front porch along with a few empty beer cans scattered around it.  I'm like, "Stephen dude--how do we know they'll open it up?"  Him back with, "Are you serious man--of course they'll open it up, and see a big pile of shit inside."  And he cackled.
   When I arrived at Stephen's mini-mansion on Halloween the first thing I had to do was urinate.  Going into his bathroom, besides noticing a few pubic hairs across the linoleum floor, I saw the pumpkin.  And I fucking opened it, greeted by a well-formed piece of chocolate brown stool--it was fucking disgusting, and I moaned in unexpected agony, Stephen cackling outside as he knew curiosity had slayed me, just as it would be for the victim of his prank.
   I kept insisting that we might get arrested as we drove through the suburbs with a pumpkin full of shit.  Was all, "What if the cops get their CSI Unit and test the crap, matching it to yours?  And we'll get busted dude."  Stephen told me to chill, comfortably smiling like the Joker from Batman, allowing himself to have a soothed conscience--being a trickster god like Loki was fine with the low-leveled guilt complex of Stephen's bizarre psychology.
   So, approaching our prey, I cut the headlights; then, Stephen ran out amidst the effulgent night, neverminding the illuminated porch that was highlighted by the sweet kiss of the glistening Milky Way.  And with meticulous passion, he gently placed the pumpkin on the victim's front porch, placing a few empty beers cans around it, fixing the Burger King paper Crown in symmetrical style, and making sure the cigar stuck out boldly.  Afterwards, he casually sauntered back to the van, me shitting Twinkies, and he got in--I switched on the lights and hauled ass outta there.
   We sat at the end of suburban sprawl and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Stephen proud of his devilish deed and doodoo.  We never got to see what the culmination was concerning the shit-fired Jack-O-Lantern, but surely there was an unhappy customer of trick or treat that night.  All in all, we were assholes.  But hey, there's couth here somewhere.
   Check out my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King